


The Last Game

by Wolvesandwerewolves



Category: Chuck (TV), White Collar
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2018-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-10 13:23:44
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10438641
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wolvesandwerewolves/pseuds/Wolvesandwerewolves
Summary: Peter gets a box in the mail, one week after Neal leaves. It looks like his consultant is sending him on a scavenger hunt, with hints and clues pointing to a life Peter never knew Neal had.But the scavenger hunt may be the last game Neal plays.





	1. Chapter 1

The box was just an ordinary box. It was cardboard, folded and taped shut with the name of a local shipping company printed on the side in dark brown, bolded letters. It was small enough to hold with one hand, but big enough to not be able to grip with one hand. It was fairly light, less than five pounds; when Peter shook it, something inside shifted slightly, hitting the inner walls and corners.

  
It was just an ordinary box.

  
Except Neal had been gone for a week and the label on the side was filled out to _Special Agent Peter Burke_ , to the _White Collar Offices of the FBI_ , written in his neat handwriting. Mocking him.

  
Peter scoffed and lightly tossed the box down on his desk.

  
Of course. _Of course_ after Neal ran away, he would resume their game of cat  & mouse. And last time, yeah, it was fun, and it showed him Neal’s fun loving, cocky personality and attitude before the two ever met. Last time, it was a game, for both of them and they both respected and admired each other. It was fun.  
But this time, it just aggravated the hell out of Peter. It felt like Neal was making fun of him. _Joke’s on you, Peter. I win._

  
Three weeks ago, Neal had told him he wasn’t leaving. He said, _I have a life here._ They were sitting at his kitchen table, going over potential ways to contact Mozzie and Peter had asked what the fight between them had been about. Neal had said he didn’t want to leave.

  
Peter had believed him.

  
They weren’t able to find Mozzie, but they found Elizabeth together—by something as simple as figuring out where certain cherry trees in the city grow—and Keller and Grant were arrested together without the treasure and without any forms of payment to protect themselves with in prison. Neal wasn’t implicated at all and officially, it was believed that the treasure had, in fact, been destroyed in that warehouse explosion. Keller had used the treasure as an excuse to simply torment a rival, according to the official theory.

  
Peter didn’t interfere with the story. He let any potential charges on Neal slide off. He let their deal remain intact and he didn’t send him back to prison. Instead, he made Neal help him clean up his house, get rid of all the crime scene tape and any other remnants the FBI. Then, they sat down with Elizabeth on the couch with wine and beer and Neal told them the full story, starting from the moment the warehouse exploded and Peter accused him. He didn’t leave anything out.

  
Peter and Elizabeth both hugged him and Neal said he wasn’t going anywhere. He said he didn’t have anywhere to go, anyway. _This is home._

  
Peter believed him. With Mozzie gone, he thought Neal might really have a chance.

  
He was wrong, apparently.

  
Two weeks ago, Neal had started acting odd. He was jittery, nervous, but doing a damn good job at pretending he was fine. A year ago, Peter wasn’t sure he would have been able to notice it. It was only in the tiniest of details: his fingers, drumming restlessly during talks he normally would have found interesting; taking a little longer than normal to read case files, because he lost his focus; subtlety checking his phone for texts more often; taking slightly longer lunch breaks and drinking more coffee. Elizabeth thought maybe he was seeing someone and he didn’t want to tell anyone yet; Peter thought that maybe Mozzie was back.

  
And then the alarm on his phone went off—the anklet was deactivated. Peter’s first reaction was fear—he really didn’t think there was any reason for Neal to run. He and Elizabeth had both been kidnapped by Keller, and at first, Peter thought Neal had just been added to that list.

  
It made sense, at the time. He was the latest enemy to go up against Neal personally and had done so at least twice before. He had motive—Neal had, once again, beaten him at his own game, robbed him of what he thought he could take. And Peter knew that Keller was more than capable of organizing a kidnapping from inside prison. With the way Neal was acting, it was possible he had been warned or was being toyed with and was hesitant to ask for help or inform Peter of the situation because of his guilt over Elizabeth’s kidnapping.

  
Peter was so, so sure that Neal was in trouble.

  
But the only thing they found at his apartment was his anklet on the kitchen table, next to the key for it, his FBI Consultant’s badge, and two pictures—one of the entire team at the office, one of him and Peter wearing tuxes together before an undercover opp.

  
The cash, ID and passports they expected to find in hidden cubby holes throughout the apartment were gone. There were clothes and a duffel bag, missing from his closet; Byron’s old suits were still there, perfect as ever, with nobody to wear them. The fridge had been cleaned out, so nothing was left to spoil. It looked like nobody had lived there in a long time; like Neal’s presence was already forgotten, lost in the dream of Paris or a tropical island without extradition.

  
Neal was gone.

  
Gritting his teeth, Peter reached into his desk and pulled out the file they had on his old consultant. He placed it on top of the box, balanced it with one hand, and grabbed his half empty _World’s Greatest FBI Agent_ mug with his other hand before sauntering into the empty conference room. He angrily placed the box on the table, making a conscious effort not to slam it down too forcefully. He only sort of succeeded. The folder on top slid off and papers drifted out of it, scattering across the table like poker cards. Neal’s cocky face grinned up at him from the first page. Peter set the mug of coffee and hastily scooped the papers back into the deep blue folder they belonged to.

  
He stalked over to the railing by the stairs and gave Jones and Diana the double finger point, quietly calling their names. After a quick glance at each other, they jogged up the stairs and followed him into the conference room. Diana shut the door for privacy.

  
“This about Caffrey?” Jones asked, eyeing the blue folder and cardboard box on the table.

  
Peter nodded jerkily, hands on his hips, seething. “He just sent me a package. Guess he missed our game,” he scoffed.

  
“Or you, boss,” Diana said softly, picking up the box and shaking it lightly.

  
“Well then, maybe he shouldn’t have left,” he muttered.

  
Diana pulled out a pocket knife, flicked it open and stabbed it into tape on the top, dragging it towards the ends. “I don’t want anyone to ever hear this, but I miss him, too.”

  
“Yeah,” Jones huffed. He opened up the folder and started picking through the papers, skimming through the information. “Remember when he brought us all cupcakes from that bakery he owned?”

  
Diana scowled, cutting through another layer of tape. “You mean the one that’s currently closing, due to both it’s owners being MIA?”

Jones and Peter looked at her curiously. “What? You didn’t know?” She shrugged, opening the flaps on the box. “Christie likes their cinnamon rolls.” She frowned, pausing as she opened the flaps of cardboard. “There’s another box.”

  
She flipped it over and let the other slide out onto the table, upside down, then glanced up, obviously annoyed.

  
Jones shrugged helplessly. “Think there’s even anything in there?”

  
Peter glanced over at Jones and frowned. “You think it’s a prank?”

  
“Sounds like something Neal would do, doesn’t it?” Diana asked, stabbing the new box.

  
“I don’t know,” Peter sighed. “No. He never does anything just for fun. When he sent us champagne while we were staking him out, he did it to let us know we were onto him.”

  
Diana finished cutting open the other box and flipped the top open, frowning. There wasn’t a high chance of Neal leaving any prints on anything, but she still pulled on a pair of gloves, then reached inside and pulled out yet another box, stripping off the newspaper wrapped around it.

  
This one was smooth, dark cherry wood, with a gold clasp on the front, securing the lid. It looked old, with small scuff marks on the corners and bottom, and the clasp on the front was loose and worn down. It didn’t look like something Neal would ever buy, let alone send to anyone as a—what? Game? Or as a gift?

  
It did, however, look like something Peter would own. Maybe as something to store old photographs in or perhaps some of El’s less expensive jewelry. But it wasn’t something he expected Neal to send him.

  
Peter flicked the gold clasp up and carefully opened the lid. On the underside of it, _Property of D. + A. Brooks_ was carved in crooked, boxy, sloppy writing. Inside was a clean, simple business card, next to a key with a small cloth chain hooked to it. The card had an address on it in handwriting similar to Neal’s, with the slow curve of the s, and the sharp turn of the y. It looked rushed, but Peter was pretty sure it was his ex-consultant’s, giving him the name of a local bank and security box. He picked up the card and flipped it over to show his agents.

  
“Great. So Caffrey’s giving us a scavenger hunt," Jones said.

  
“Yeah,” Peter sighed, thinking of all the lies his consultant had weaved. “But it’s gonna be the last game he plays with us.”


	2. Chapter 2

_Three Weeks Earlier_

  
Every morning before Neal left for work, he would shut and lock his door. June’s maids had a key, as did June herself and so did Peter. Mozzie . . . didn’t, but he did have a lock pick set, and therefore access to Neal’s room and wine collection.

  
More often than not, Neal came back to an unlocked room. Most of the time, it was Mozzie, drinking his alcohol.

  
But since Moz had ditched town, that door had remained locked everyday he came home from the FBI. Today, it was unlocked and cracked open.

  
Neal paused at the door, frowning. He could call Peter, explain the situation. Neal had a lot of enemies, and, unfortunately the chatter about the still-missing Nazi treasure was painting a target on his back.

  
Then again, if it was Mozzie . . . He had stolen the treasure. Neal doubted Peter would be happy to see his old friend. The two may be civil now, but part of the reason was because the devil on his shoulder was out of town. Neal (surprisingly) hadn’t gotten himself into any trouble sine he’d been gone. But he sure missed Mozzie, and maybe Moz did, too.

  
Rather than run the risk of his friend being arrested, Neal tucked his phone into his pocket and nudged the door open.  


  
It wasn’t Mozzie.

  
There was a gun on the table, loaded, but with the safety off, pointed towards the door. Next to that, a badge with Neal’s own face staring up at him. There was an old newspaper to the side, the words, _Nazi_ _Treasure Uncovered and Lost Again_ , in black, bolded letters.

  
Neal paused at the gun, frowning, his body tensing in distaste. He almost would have preferred Mozzie. “No weapons—or feet—on the table, Bryce.”

  
His brother grinned at him, kicking his feet down to stand. “It’s been a while,” he said, leaning forward to hug him. “I heard you’ve been pretty busy lately—without me. What gives?”

  
Neal raised an eyebrow as he pulled away from his brother. “Have you been spying on me?” he joked.

  
“I am a spy, after all.”

  
“Of course.”

  
“And you’re a thief.” Bryce reached over for the newspaper on the table. It was a stupid newspaper, the kind that speculated about adulterous celebrity relationships and potential alien abductions. Still, it spread the word about Neal and Mozzie’s theft, and some people paid attention.

  
Bryce, he supposed, was one of those people.

  
“Still reading Enquirer?”

  
“It’s always entertaining,” Bryce nodded, flipping through the pages.

  
Neal smirked, reaching for a wine glass. “There’s beer in the fridge,” he said, pouring a glass for himself.

  
“I wish I could say I was impressed,” Bryce murmured, still reading the paper. He’d sat back down, ignoring Neal’s request to keep his feet off the table.

  
“Not about the beer, I’m assuming.”

  
“No—although, that is impressive, too.”

  
Neal smiled. “I can’t take full credit for either.”

Bryce glanced up. “Perhaps that’s what’s most impressive of all. Where’s your friend?”

  
“He’s in the wind.” Neal frowned. “I actually thought you might be him, for a minute,” he admitted.

  
Bryce nodded solemnly. “Neal, you’re in trouble. I’m not the only one poking around in this. Everyone thinks you have the treasure.”

  
“So I’ve heard.” Neal shrugged. “Keller doesn’t believe that treasure is destroyed—he knows I had it.”

  
“And he’s spreading the word. You’re left holding the smoking gun with nothing to show for it.”

  
“A few forgeries, maybe. Degas—“

  
“Isn’t going to cut it, “ Bryce interrupted. “You don’t know where Moz is?”

  
Neal frowned, glancing away. He had an idea. Funnily enough, Peter was the one who gave it to him. And he was pretty sure he knew how to contact him, at least.

  
But Mozzie had made his choice. If he wanted to be back, he would be. Besides, it had been a full week. Moz had probably left the island by now, which would put him outside of Estelle’s reach.

  
And aside from that, if he was away, he was out of danger. From this, at least. Until word hit him, but it would probably take a while if he was out of the states and laying low.

  
“I don’t know,” he said, shaking his head.

  
Bryce looked at him like he didn’t believe him, but he let it go. “Then for now,” he said, “we’re on our own. Without the treasure, and with a pack of dogs after a scent.”

  
“Nice analogy.”

  
“Thank you.” He shrugged, pulling up a picture of a man on his phone. “It fits, don’t you think?”

  
Neal studied the picture, memorizing the details of the man’s face. He had a strong jawline, partially disguised by a thin, scratchy beard. Tanned skin, with crows feet and fine lines trailing along his forehead. Blue eyes, slightly squinted in a scowl that matched his tight mouth.

  
“Yes, it does,” Neal agreed. “He’s after the treasure?”

  
Bryce shook his head. “He’s after you.” He grabbed his badge and gun, standing up from the table. “Let’s go say hi.”

  
“The direct approach. Of course.” Neal set his unfinished glass of wine in the sink, following his brother. “I’ll be back by tomorrow morning?”

  
“You’re done running?” Bryce glanced back at his brother. “I’ll have you back by curfew. Peter won’t even know you were missing.”

Neal nodded his approval. “Yeah,” he said. “I’m done running.”


	3. Chapter 3

The safety deposit box turned out to be a safety locker, actually. It wasn’t huge, but it fit two small duffel bags side by side. They were both black, but one had a blue zip tie on the zipper and the other had an orange zip tie. Other than that, they looked identical, at least from the outside. Their contents, however, were not.

  
Peter waited until they were back inside the FBI conference room to open them up. He was glad he did, too.

  
The duffel with the blue zip on it had things typical for Caffrey. A few spare clothes, toiletries, wads of cash—at least a thousand, possibly more—and quite a few Id’s and passports. Peter took note of the names: Nicholas Halden, Ben Anderson, George Devore, Bryce Halls.

  
The other duffel held mostly the same things. The Id’s read: Matthew Turner, Daniel Cullen, Donovan Cooper, Neal Halls. Except two of these personas had (forged, obviously) CIA badges and the duffel bag had fewer clothes and a false bottom. Underneath everything, there were weapons. Guns, even though Neal wasn’t violent. They were all loaded.

  
“Damn,” Jones said.

  
“This is . . . unexpected,” Diana agreed.

“Nepal’s not violent. Why would he need these?”

  
Peter frowned, thinking back to the first time he saw Neal holding a gun. What was it he said? _Just because I don’t like guns, doesn’t mean I don’t know how to use them._ And he _did_ know how to use them. When he was sure that Fowler had killed Kate, he went after him with a gun. And then again, when Keller was attacking Peter, Neal was on the ground, beaten and he still held a gun steady enough to shoot him in the leg.

  
_“How did you make that shot?”_

  
And now. _Why do you have all these guns?_

  
“He may not be violent, but he certainly knows how to use a weapon. He shot Keller in the leg, and he went after Fowler back when Kate died,” Peter said.

  
“But why would he _need_ them?” Diana asked. "There’s no way he'd ever use them.”

  
Jones picked up Donovan Cooper, one of the CIA badges. “Wonder what he was planning with these, too. Can’t be anything good.”

  
Peter sighed. “Alright. Let’s look up all these names, see if any of them have any . . . _records.”_

  
Diana and Jones nodded readily. “On it, boss.”

  
Frowning, Peter picked up the other CIA badge. He took out his own FBI one and compared them together. It was a damn good forgery, but Peter had no idea why he would make it. He made art, not this. Not unless he would have needed it. But Peter didn’t know why he would have needed it.

  
_Neal, what did you get yourself into?_

  
_Is this all just some game to you? Just a loose end for us to chase instead of you?_

  
Well, it wasn’t going to work. While Jones and Diana were looking up the aliases they’d found, Peter would continue to look for Neal. 

_He would not play whatever game this was_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait and for the short chapter! I wanted to make it longer, but I also wanted to post something. 
> 
> For some reason, I had a hard time getting this chapter onto the page. Uh, here are my excuses.
> 
> I graduated from college. Yay! I am currently looking for a job at a salon, where I'd like to do full body waxing. Yep. 
> 
> I recently got a boyfriend for the first time in my life. He's even the one who asked me out, a fact I have to keep reminding myself of. I'm currently trying to figure out what to do with myself (and him). But it's been fun.
> 
> Again, sorry for the short chapter and the long wait.


	4. Chapter 4

_Two weeks ago_

  
He had to have noticed, by now. Neal was off, he had been for some time now. And yet, he hasn't said anything.

  
Bryce frowned, glancing up at Agent Burke's office from where he sat at Neal's desk. It had been quite a while since he'd played the role of his brother. High school, he thought. Before either of them knew who they really were.

  
Neal was a great con artist, able to trick anyone into seeing what he wanted them to see. And Bryce was a great agent, never over-playing his hand.

  
But he had to admit, he was out of his depth this time. The other agents around him had to have noticed ‘Neal‘ acting odd. And yet, this was the third day. No one had approached him, acting concerned or suspicious. There were a few sideways glances, a few obvious whispers, but that was it. Maybe that was how Neal's life worked, now. Everyone stepping around the issue, never out right confronting it until it got too damned big to ignore.

  
What if he needed help and everyone assumed he could handle it, whatever it was? What if no one wanted to help? What if they assumed the worst?

  
Bryce wondered if that was how his brother had gotten him into their current situation. After the kidnapping and the treasure, the issues that followed, Bryce now played Neal and Neal—well. He had yet to wake up. Bryce was beginning to wonder if he ever would.

  
_Maybe it's time to skip town._

  
He’d done all that he could, acting as Neal. He'd covered their tracks as good as he could. It was time to slip away, somewhere safer.

  
He would have to leech off the CIA's resources, instead of just relying on himself and now, Carina. She was one of the few agents that knew he was still alive. Maybe he could convince her to kidnap a doctor on their way out—perhaps the one who looked after him when he ‘died.’ She'd probably enjoy tracking her down more than she would her current responsibility. Carina had never been one for babysitting. Sitting and waiting when there was really nothing she could do.

  
Bryce wasn't good at it, either. Especially now, when it involved Neal.

  
And yet, here he was. Sitting and waiting at his brother's office, doing his brother's work, wearing his brother's anklet.

  
He was buying time. It was important and crucial if they wanted to get out safe. _Safer_.  
They had everything they needed in Neal's apartment. Passports, for the both of them; plenty of cash, both US and foreign; clothes, first aid, toothbrushes, guns (for Bryce); lock picks (for Neal); Bryce even had a cell phone with resources and contacts on it from the CIA. That's how he got a hold of Carina.   
Bryce had planned for any contingency. He had several hidey holes throughout the country and the world with much of the same things. It was a remnant of the spy life Bryce wasn't sure he left behind. But it would help them could get away, in an emergency, without having to go back to Neal's apartment.

  
But they went back to Neal's apartment anyway. After all, Neal was fine. For a few hours. And then, he wasn't.

  
Plan for every contingency, but Bryce hadn't planned for this.

  
Well, he was planning now.

  
He watched out of the corner of his eye as Agent Burke—Peter, Neal called him, always by his first name, even as Burke went about imprisoning his brother—walked down the stairs at exactly 12 O'clock. Lunch with his wife at a nearby café, just like every other day. 

  
Bryce knew, because Neal had told him, that he used to go to lunch with Peter nearly everyday. But everyday this week, he'd had lunch at home with Bryce. Everyday since Bryce had been there, Burke had walked by Neal's desk with a nod, sometimes a quick chat. So far he had yet to be invited.

  
Things were still tense, then, between them. The stitches were healing.

  
If Neal survived this, he doubted his friendship with Peter Burke would. Not unless Bryce did something about it. He sighed.

  
Neal would do the same thing for him. If he had been able to at the time, Bryce had no doubt his brother would have helped salvage the friendship he used to have with Chuck.

  
First, he would save Neal. And then he would continue getting rid of the bastards after Neal and the treasure—his way, no more holding back and planting evidence or conning them. All he needed was a bullet.

  
And then he would try to help Peter understand and forgive Neal for all the bullshit was about to put them through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a lot less action-y than I had planned, a lot more in-your-head type of planning/hinting at things and whatnot. I'm gonna try to get into some action things instead of explaining things after the fact. No promises.   
> I hope you guys like this! Mozzie will be coming up soon. And you'll find out ehat exactly happened to Neal, too! Maybe not in the next chapter though.   
> Thank you guys for reading. :)


	5. Chapter 5

There was another box sitting on his desk.

  
Peter sighed. Almost a week had passed since they found Neal's stash. They'd ran all the ID's , but hadn't gotten very far. Half of them were blacklisted, unavailable to the FBI database. The information was privileged, which angered and worried Peter. He wasn't sure what to think about it.

  
Maybe this time, he would get some answers.

  
Peter grabbed the cardboard box and carried it to the conference room. Just like before, he called for Jones and Diana. They shut the door again, but everyone knew. It was the big talk of the office.

  
“What do think he's mixed up in?” Jones asked, as Peter tore through box after box.

  
“I have no idea,” Peter admitted, as he ripped open the last bit of cardboard.

  
He held a slim red box that opened with a hinge on it. It was a jewelry box. He opened it up to see a plain black flash drive cradled in the white cushioning where a bracelet would usually be. There was a folded note pinned underneath it. With gloved hands, he pulled it out and unfolded it.

  
_An explanation_ , it read. _XOXO, Not Neal Caffrey_

  
He scoffed, handing it over to his junior agents to read.

  
“Cocky bastard,” Jones said. “You think this means we're gonna learn his real name? I knew it wasn't Neal.”

  
“Let's find out,” Peter answered, plugging the flash drive into the port of the laptop already in the conference room.

  
It turned out to be a video. A series of videos, actually, but most of them, save for one, had a grey lock over them. They probably needed a passcode to see them. It would take days to crack. He had no idea what they could find.

  
But there was one video available to view. The thumbnail was blurred bits of color, with no hint about what was on it. Peter hovered the mouse above it.

  
Thinking again of the shock he'd felt last week, with the guns, the CIA badges, he took a deep breath. He needed to brace himself for whatever was on here.

  
Jones quickly set it up to cast to the wall on a projector, tugging the screen down for him. Diana sat next to him, mouth set in a determined line and eyebrows tugged down in thought.

  
“Alright,” she said. “Let's get this over with.”

  
Peter agreed. He clicked play as Jones sat down next to him.

  
It was obviously Neal, on the video, but it was years ago. He looked young—high school, maybe, or fresh out of. His hair was a bit longer and ruffled, almost like he'd just gotten out of bed. He was wearing jeans and an oversized grey hoodie, the collar and hood bunched up around his neck, making him look small. He sat up straight in a chair, posture alert but mostly relaxed. There was a slight line of tension in his shoulders, and the set of his mouth was uneasy. Behind him, there was a closed door with two full bookshelves on either side.

  
“Am I in trouble, sir?” he asked, brows furrowed down.

  
“Not necessarily,” a voice answered. It was closer to the camera. He imagined Neal, sitting in front of a desk, in front of a teacher or professor. They were filming it, possibly without Neal's knowledge. It was important enough to send to Peter after he'd ran away.

  
Peter wasn't sure he was going to like whatever was on here.

  
“There are a few things I wanted to discuss, Bryce.”

  
Neal— _Bryce, he was Bryce, was that his real name?_ —nodded. “I'm listening,” he said warily.

  
“Your test scores are remarkable,” the man said. He didn't sound impressed. It was more accusing than anything else.

  
Neal shrugged casually. His grin was cocky, crooked, but his shoulders were still tense. He was acting. “I've heard that my whole life.”

  
“Not from me.” A hand reached out, holding papers that almost obstructed the view of the camera. Neal grabbed them, held them in his lap, but didn't look away as the man continued talking. “Our organization is recruiting. We only want the best.”

  
Neal looked down at the papers he'd been handed. As he read them, his brow furrowed and he frowned. His gaze shot back up towards the camera, eyes wide and mouth open slightly. He was shocked and Peter wondered what the hell was going on. He almost spoke, but Neal's expression quickly became guarded, defensive. He sent a cool look to the man behind the camera.

  
“I was planning on becoming an accountant, thank you. I appreciate the offer, but I can't accept this.”

  
“An _accountant?”_ Diana scoffed.

  
“He is good at math,” Jones said. “But I thought he never went to college.”

  
_Maybe he was lying,_ Peter thought. _Neal doesn't lie to me._

  
“We know who you are, Aiden.”

  
_Aiden?_

  
Neal—Bryce, Aiden, Peter didn't know—shifted uncomfortably. He pressed his back against the chair as if he were trying to sink into it. “What do you want?” he asked, voice low and accusing. Peter thought he almost looked scared.

  
“I've already told you what I want.”

  
“How did you find me?”

  
“Your papers were foraged excellently. Your license, high school documents, medical records. Whoever did them was a master. But the history was off—no one in your hometown has ever heard of you. It wasn't too hard to figure out.”

  
Neal listened quietly, the guarded expression never fading. He nodded jerkily at the explanation, but didn't answer.

  
“I'm surprised you two were able to leave the program so easily. Faking your own deaths at eighteen—that's impressive.”

  
Peter's heart started pounding. Part of it didn't make sense—no, none of it made any sense—but one thing was clear.

  
Neal faked his death when he was still just a kid. He must have been running since then. He wondered if Moz had helped him, if they’d known each other then. He paused the video, wiped a hand over his face, frustrated and confused.

  
“The program? What the hell is that? And who else is he talking about?”

  
Jones shook his head. “Faking his death? He was a kid. That's fucked up.”

  
“Maybe he was running from something,” Diana suggested. _He's always running._ “He's never talked about his parents—or his childhood.”

  
“I don't know,” Peter said, sighing. He hated this. “We should keep watching.”

  
He clicked the video again.

  
“Leave Danny out of this,” Neal said. It was a voice Peter had never heard from him—he sounded dangerous.

  
“Do you want to know where your brother is right now, Aiden?”

  
_“Brother?”_

  
“Don't call me that,” Neal said. “I know where he is.”

  
“Then you know what he's doing? What name he's going by now?”

  
“Don't bring him into this. He could never do this.”

  
“He's skilled. If we can't have you, he's a good replacement. There are a few kinks to be worked out—”

  
“Don't,” Neal said. “I'll work for you. I'll do whatever you want me to. But leave Danny out of this.”

  
“Sign the papers, Bryce.”

  
Neal shifted again, looking back down at the stack in his hands before returning his gaze to the camera again. His eyes were cold, steely. “I want to know Danny won't be used against me ever again. And if anything ever happens to me, you won't try to replace me with him. He needs to be safe, always. And he's always my first priority.”

  
“That's not a good mindset to have. Your job will always be your first priority.”

  
“Do you want me or not?” Neal asked.

  
“I'll have it written up,” the man said. He sounded fairly unhappy. “The rest of your paperwork will be sent up to your dorm within the week. Don't let anyone see it.”

  
“I won't.”

  
“Sign the papers, Bryce.”

  
Neal nodded and grabbed a pen. As he began signing, he glanced up. “What will I be doing?”

  
“Whatever we tell you to.”

  
Neal scoffed as he handed the papers back.

  
“You'll go through training. There will be a series of tests, starting next semester up until graduation.”

  
Neal nodded. He still looked angry, but resigned. Peter wasn't sure what was going on, but he hated it.

  
“And then?”

  
“If you succeed, you'll officially be an employee of the government. You'll be an Agent of the CIA.”

  
“Jesus Christ,” Peter said, thinking of the badges, the blacked out documents. He thought of how Neal didn't have any history to his name until the day he turned eighteen. “Jesus Christ.”

  
“What the fuck?” Diana hissed.

  
Jones shook his head. “I don't believe this.”

  
“Don't fail,” the man warned.

  
“I wasn't planning on it,” Neal said. “If anything ever happens to Danny, or if I find out you haven't kept your word—and don't think I don't know about the camera in here, that will be as good as proof until I sign the rest of the papers—you won't live to regret it. Danny might be a pacifist but I'm not.”

  
“Good,” the man said. “I think this will be a good match, Bryce.”

  
“At least it will be more entertaining than accounting,” Neal joked bitterly. He looked upset. He looked ready to bolt, leave college and the CIA behind him. “I have a test tomorrow. Can I go?”

  
“Of course. Just remember—we'll always know where you are.”

  
It was a warning. _Don't run away._

  
“Alright,” Neal said. “I'll see you in class. Bye, Professor.”

  
The video cut out. The screen went black, waiting for them to do something. Peter couldn't. He couldn't breath.

  
“They used his family against him,” Jones said.

  
“No. This doesn't make sense,” he said. “Neal can't be—he's a _criminal.”_ Maybe he left right after this. But then the guns, the badges—Neal wasn't as young on the pictures as he was on the video. So he stayed.

  
No. He's not a CIA Agent. _He's Neal_.

  
“Maybe he was hired to be a con. The Monuments men?”

  
Peter huffed angrily, thinking again of the treasure, of how Keller kidnapped Elizabeth. He thought of how Mozzie was nowhere to be found. _Maybe he had more of a reason to leave than I thought._

  
“No,” Diana said. “I don't believe it. This is just another con.”

  
Peter rubbed his eyes. No. He couldn't believe it, either. He wouldn't. The other videos, once they unlocked them, would have a better explanation.

  
He grabbed the card that came with the flash drive. _An explanation,_ it said. _Not Neal Caffrey._ As if Neal Caffrey didn't exist. _He had to. It couldn't be all lies._

  
Peter would find a better explanation. He would find Neal, force him to talk, to tell the truth.

  
He had to.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for sticking with me and continuing to read this! <3
> 
> I'm thinking next chapter, Mozzie! And more answers.

_Three Weeks Ago_

It was going to be impossible to get up the stairs without June noticing. Hell, it was going to be impossible to get up the stairs as is. But he refused to stay at the safehouse. If Peter saw on the anklet that he hadn't spent the night at home, he would be suspicious.

Beside him, Bryce growled in annoyance. “I hate you,” he murmured.

“This is both of our faults,” Neal said. He shifted in the seat, wincing. His whole body ached, but his shoulder burned. It felt feverish, pulsing with heat. He wiped the sweat off his forehead with his left arm. He wouldn't be able to draw or paint for a while. Hell, even foraging a signature would hurt his shoulder. “Bryce.”

“Exactly how many of your friends do you want to know about us, Neal?”

He wanted to tell Peter, at least. He deserved to know. And it would make what they were doing a hell of a lot easier. Bryce knew that, but he refused. He didn't trust Peter. With Neal's latest illegal misadventures, it would be impossible—if Peter didn't trust Neal, Bryce didn't trust Peter. Even if it was justified. He'd always been like that.

“Mozzie doesn't count,” he said. “It's June.” If anyone else aside from Peter deserved to know, it was June. She had saved him as much as Peter had.

“We should just stay here.”

Neal looked around Bryce's safehouse. It was on the edge of his radius—actually fairly close to Peter and Elizabeth's house. One bed, one pullout couch, made up—had been for years. Bryce hadn't stayed here in ages. The fridge was unplugged, no food in the cupboards or anywhere else. There was a thin layer of dust everywhere—they had wiped down a few surfaces, but it hadn't helped much. The place smelled old.

“Mozzie’s live-in storage unit was better than this. At least he had wine.”

“I'll go grocery shopping,” Bryce promised. He shifted, leaning back against the couch with a tired sigh. Wincing, Neal moved with him.

“You're not buying wine from a place that sells underwear, Bryce. We’ve been over this.”

Bryce huffed. “Neal,” he said, voice low, “we can't go back to your apartment.”

“I'm fine.”

Neal was only slightly exaggerating. The bullet didn't go all the way through—Bryce had to dig it out of his shoulder. The safehouse may not have had wine, but it had vodka and whiskey, which was used as antiseptic and a mild pain reliever. Neal wasn't sure that it had helped but he wanted to believe that it had. The pain was bad enough with it.

His jawline and cheekbone were both bruised and throbbing. His chest and stomach were, too. Neal wouldn't be surprised if at least one was fractured. The knuckles of both hands were red and angry, the skin scraped off on someone's teeth. He wasn't one for fighting but he’d done his best holding them off before Bryce could get there. His brother had shot them and he knew for a fact that the only reason any of them were still breathing was because Bryce hadn't wanted him to see him kill people.

“I'm fine,” he hissed, when Bryce pointedly pressed on his sore ribs. He groaned slightly, and, since his brother was done stitching up the bullet wound, leaned against him, back to his side, with his brother's arm protectively curled around him. “Bryce.” He was pleading, now.

“I know,” Bryce said quietly. He sounded distant. “You _are_ fine. You've been through worse.”

Neal closed his eyes, thinking of when be was still just a kid, still just Danny. It was before he'd gotten good at hustling pool. He smiled too much. The guys caught on, and even though he wasn't even thirteen then, beat the shit out of him. He was in bed for three days, unable to even go to the bathroom without help.

“You stitched me up, then, too,” he said, voice rough.

“Mom would have killed us for that hospital bill.”

“No, she wouldn't. Funeral expenses.”

Bryce chuckled. The sound vibrated through his back, tingling his shoulder painfully. Their laughter was one thing about them that wasn't identical—when they were kids, playing each other, Ellen would tease them until they laughed. The game was up, that easy.

The good old days.

“Bryce.”

Bryce curled his fingers into a fist. “What about work? When Burke sees you like this—”

“Fortunately for me, you don't have one bruise.”

“I'm not your clone, Neal.” His tone was dry.

Neal frowned. “No, you're my brother.” He could feel Bryce still his breathing for a split second. “We used to do it all the time in high school.”

“This isn't Gym class,” Bryce whispered. “Neal, I just want to protect you.”

“That's all you ever do.”

“You can't be complaining about that.”

“No. I'm just saying . . .” Neal paused, trying to think of what he was saying. He thought of Peter—Jones and Diana, of Elizabeth and June and even Sara, although they'd broken up. He thought of how much fun he had complaining to Peter about the office coffee, of how proud he felt of himself when they caught the bad guy. He thought about waking up every morning to the view outside his window. He wanted to one day introduce his brother to everyone, everyone that mattered. “This is home. I don't want to risk it. I don't want to leave it like St. Lois.”

“I haven't heard you call anywhere home since we were eighteen,” Bryce admitted quietly.

“No where else has felt like this.”

Bryce sighed, rubbed his eyes. He gently pushed Neal away, murmuring, “Get off of me. I'm not your pillow.”

Wincing, Neal sat up enough for Bryce to slip out, get up from the couch. He took a shot of whiskey, grimacing and started cleaning up the blood and bandages. He didn't face Neal until the mess was gone.

“Alright,” Bryce said. His tone was defeated, movements slow and heavy as he ran a hand through his hair. “If you're sure this is where you want to stay, and no one will use me against you, alright.” He hesitated. “Just don't mention the CIA.”

Neal grinned. “I'm not sure anyone would believe me.”

 


End file.
